The Quest for the College Barbie Dream House

During the cool breeze of August, my legs brushed the wood floor as I sat in a pretzel shape with 36 college brochures encircling me. The thick shiny papers displayed the lights of Los Angeles, neo-gothic cathedrals of New England, and classic columns of New York. Princeton, Yale, Columbia, and Dartmouth winked up at me from the floor, touting such superiority that I could have easily mistaken the brochures for rugby print ads. I was captivated by an image of Low Library, and the allure of Columbia pulled me in deeper. I was hooked by the University’s advertising campaign, and an annual $50,000.00 receipt would be the price for it.

This year, more students will be applying to universities than ever before, and more Ivy-obsessed elites will be taking their shots at Columbia. Nearly 20,000 students will be competing against me to gain a coveted spot within the gates of Morningside Heights. I have fallen victim to the process, and I’ve come to realize why many students are more obsessed than their parents are. The entire idea of a university is a marketing executive’s dream—millions of students get magazines, brochures, and pamphlets in the mail to choose their own personal universe.

In the past, students were told which classes to take, which activities to engage in, and where to live. Now, for the first independent choice in their lives (for most), they get to pick the scenery, the coursework, the social scene, the athletic crowd, and their own room. Forget Second Life; this surpasses it by tenfold. The Barbie generation is finally growing up and bringing all of its brand reverence with it.

From infancy, we’ve been taught multiple languages, encouraged to learn by first-hand experience, and told to use our imagination. Through Play-doh, building blocks, and Lincoln Logs, we have been encouraged to create our own universes. The obsession with materialism began at birth—the better stroller, better preschool, or better dance class made us predestined for success and the obsession with it. The Barbie generation emerged, with hundreds of different types of Barbie dolls and Barbie playhouses. One child’s popularity in the playground correlated with the type of additions added to her playhouse (I distinctly remember getting one with an elevator on Christmas, but I most likely disregarded it by Valentine’s Day). As we progressed into awkward tween-dom, we were inundated with Limited Too ads and Build-A-Bears. Through the right clothing or the right teddy bear, you could gain popularity. Self worth characterized by acquisitive choice was the vein that flowed through our lives. High school only further illustrated our obsession with glamour through mind-numbing, visually appealing TV shows, like Laguna Beach and The Hills. We, as teens, were the rampant consumers, learning from our parents who bought the house or car that they could not afford.

So here we are, at the culmination of our consumption driven desires: college. Little did my parents know, the Barbie dream house would kick-start a chain that would charge them 200,000 dollars. The coveted Ivies—like the Louis Vuitton bags you now see Juicy-clad 13-year-olds toting around in the mall—are the new brand name. College is the final title that distinguishes superiority and claims the title of the ultimate luxury good. University ad campaigns are selling a lifestyle, and they are frighteningly shrewd about it. The Ivy League is selling the best education in the world, and thousands of students are salivating over it in hopeful longing. As a result, the Ivy League will receive upwards of 100,000 applications from students imploring the universities to bestow upon them the ultimate title. The final goal is for the individual to be branded, in a more literal sense than just having a prestigious university emblazoned across his or her college sweatshirt. The goal is to become a part of this new microcosm. It is the ultimate culmination of public self worth for our generation before the tide of starting salaries. Our grades, SAT scores, extracurricular activities, and personal thoughts—what is essentially four years of our lives—are submitted into a database, and the machine spits back a result that tells us whether we are better than the person sitting next to us in calculus class. My statistics will dictate whether I could take a class with Professor Jeffrey Sachs or receive that copy of the Iliad this summer. A mere page of paper will serve as the indicator if my worthiness for Columbia’s endless educational opportunities. The college application process and subsequent acceptances, rejections, and deferrals serve as the ultimate gauge of our worth. As a result, I’ll be waiting, terrified at my computer on Dec. 15, along with the rest of those Columbia hopefuls to see if I match up to be worthy of its branding.

The author is a senior at the Academy for Business and Finance in Hackensack, New Jersey. She applied early decision to the Columbia College class of 2013.